


Lambeth Blues

by teyla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time Penetration, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light BDSM, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Pushy Bottoms, Self-Worth Issues, Sibling Incest, Teenage Hooker Sherlock, but definitely some boundary issues and bad decision making, meaning it's mycroft's first time to penetrate, not quite dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: Still waters run deep. That's especially true for the Holmes brothers, who hide a past full of shameful mistakes and dark secrets behind their closed-off exteriors.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neery/gifts).



> Take the summary with a grain of salt; 75% of the intention behind this is simply to write some delicious angsty porn. There is a longer fic in this, and it's partly written, but I'm not sure it'll ever see the light of day. For now, I'm sharing this.
> 
> Sherlock's age isn't specifically defined, but he's older than 16 and younger than 18. Mycroft is 7 years older.
> 
> Kudos are great, comments are greater. Enjoy!

“There really is nothing to it, Mycroft.”

They’re in Mycroft’s bedroom. Outside, Lambeth Road is being as noisy as ever, buses rumbling by and cars honking, the occasional pedestrian shouting about something or other. Lambeth as it lives and breathes. Mycroft hates it, but it’s all he can currently afford.

Once he’s proven his usefulness at Vauxhall Cross, it’ll get better. He’ll be able to afford the other side of the river. Pimlico, at least. Maybe Westminster. He’ll be able to buy nicer sheets; double the thread count. These cheap John Lewis knock-offs are incredibly hard on his skin.

Sherlock’s skin, of course, is flawless despite the cheap sheets. Now that he’s clean, Sherlock always looks flawless. It’s most irritating. Mycroft rolls over onto his side, props his head up and finds his brother’s watchful eyes. “There is everything to it, Sherlock. Especially in our most precarious situation.”

“’Our most precarious situation.’” Mockery rings in Sherlock’s words, but it’s amiable. A fight is not what his brother is looking for. “We’ve always been extraordinary, Mycroft. That’s the definition of who we are.”

“So that means we can do what we want?”

“Why not?”

Sherlock doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blush. He just looks at Mycroft, those extraordinary eyes glinting first green, then blue, as the light falling in through the window changes colour. He reaches out, and Mycroft doesn’t stop him as he slides a hand over Mycroft’s bare chest.

Sherlock’s the only one (besides Mycroft’s doctor) who has seen him in this state of undress since he was six years old. That fact alone proves that there is nothing ordinary about this situation.

Mycroft rolls onto his back with a groan, raising a hand to cover his eyes. “Sherlock. Please. Stop.”

The mattress shifts, and long fingers wrap around his wrist. He resists the tug until the weight of Sherlock’s body settles against his side. There’s pressure against his thigh, bleeding through the thin fabric of his pyjama trousers, and he knows it’s Sherlock’s cock, warm and not entirely flaccid.

When Mycroft opens his eyes, Sherlock’s face is hovering mere inches away. He can feel his brother’s breath against his cheek as Sherlock speaks. “This isn’t rational, Mycroft. We’ve done everything else in the book. Why is this different?”

Why, indeed. Mycroft’s eyes trace angular lines, high cheekbones and the sharp ridge of Sherlock’s nose. Full lips that feel soft under his own, so very familiar after all these months. Just months, not years. It all happened so quickly after he brought Sherlock back from that back-alley drug den. “Have you done it before?”

“You know I have.”

“I know you’ve told me you have. But have you really?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes off, dropping back onto the mattress with a frustrated thump. “I didn’t lie to you. I’m not a liar.”

“That’s what any liar would say.”

“Fuck you.” The bedding shifts as Sherlock swings his legs over the side. He steps up to the window, unashamed of his nakedness, a cacophony of coloured lights painting a pattern on his skin. “You act all wise and knowing, Mycroft, but really, you don’t know anything. I’m your first, aren’t I?”

The look Sherlock throws him over his shoulder is like a physical weight on Mycroft’s chest. He pushes the covers aside and gets up as well, jaw working as he slips bare feet into a pair of slippers. “I’m not going to answer that.”

“You don’t have to.” They stare at each other across the bed, and despite himself Mycroft can’t help _looking_ —looking at his brother, looking at the young man standing there with his hair dishevelled, his eyes blazing, and his half-hard cock hanging between his thighs. Sherlock takes a step towards him, and his heart skips a beat. “I spent more than a year hooking on Canal Street, Mycroft. I know what a man looking for his first queer lay looks like. He looks like you did when you showed up there in your tightest pair of trousers.”

“I wasn’t—“

“Are we really going to do this again?”

Sherlock’s harsh tone cuts him off, and he swallows the rest of his sentence. They _have_ done this, over and over, and really, Sherlock is right when he’s implying that it’s becoming ridiculous. He’s right, too, when he says that Mycroft’s reluctance is not rational. The crossing of the Rubicon occurred the first time Mycroft saw Sherlock’s eyes glaze over in orgasmic pleasure, it happened the first time Sherlock went to his knees and did to Mycroft what he’s done to countless strangers in dark, dingy back-alleys. This last step isn’t even a step at all. It’s a natural evolution.

Even Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t dare to stand in the way of evolution.

“All right. Get on the bed.” His throat is dry, his voice raspy, but the effect is immediate. Sherlock’s eyes widen, his back stiffens, and his mouth opens to deliver a smart retort. Mycroft cocks his head, narrows his eyes. It’s the smallest movement, but it shuts Sherlock up most efficiently. “Do not talk. Get on the bed.”

Sherlock’s smart, so Sherlock knows to kneel without Mycroft having to tell him. He’s facing the headboard. Mycroft walks around to the foot of the bed, takes in the line of his thighs and the smooth slope of his spine bleeding into two round, firm arsecheeks.

“How many, Sherlock?” He shakes the slippers off before he gets on the bed as well, moves up to his brother’s still form and slides his hands down Sherlock’s sides.

“I don’t know.” Raspy, quiet. Sherlock’s ribcage is contracting and expanding under Mycroft’s hands, and he can smell the arousal emanating from his pores. He presses his fingernails into smooth skin and rakes them downwards, hard enough to hurt. Sherlock flinches.

“Not good enough, brother mine. Did you ‘delete’ them? What on Earth for?” He leans in closer, brings his lips very close to Sherlock’s ear. “What could be so important for a drugged-out junkie to remember that he would have to delete valuable memories of loyal customers?”

“I suppose I didn’t consider them valuable.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft straightens up, runs a nail up Sherlock’s spine. “No. You never had any business sense.” He grabs the back of Sherlock’s neck, squeezes hard and pushes. “Get down.”

Sherlock tumbles forward, and Mycroft doesn’t give him a chance to collect himself. He shoves his brother’s face into the pillows, his other hand hooking underneath Sherlock’s hips to pull his arse up in the air. Sherlock makes a protesting noise, and Mycroft yanks on a handful of dark curls. “Do shut up, brother mine.”

Uncharacteristically compliant, Sherlock remains still, perched on his forearms and knees. Mycroft reaches around, and sure enough: Sherlock’s cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and ready. Mycroft grabs it and elicits a grunt.

“This is your problem, Sherlock,” he says as he begins to stroke; long, rhythmic, almost mechanical. The fingers of his other hand splay on Sherlock’s arse. “You have no sense of value. Your intellect is more limited than mine, but it is still remarkable. And yet, what have you done with it so far?”

Sherlock’s panting harshly into the pillow, and Mycroft delivers a hard slap against his buttock. The skin turns a satisfying shade of red. “Answer me.”

“I don’t—care. About intellect.”

“No. You don’t. I rest my case.” Mycroft rakes his fingernails over the stimulated skin until Sherlock lets out a strangled moan. “Be quiet.”

A sheen of sweat is gathering on Sherlock’s back. Ignoring the twinge of disgust in his gut, Mycroft reaches out and trails his fingertip along his brother’s spine. Sweat pearls over ridged skin, and he can _smell_ it. It smells like arousal, like sex. It smells like Sherlock.

For a moment, he wonders what in God’s name he’s doing, and how many circles of hell might be reserved for people like him. But the upside of working in intelligence is that he’s learned to ignore questions like that.

His finger reaches Sherlock’s tailbone, and he slides it further downwards. The nub of Sherlock’s hole feels rough and pliable under his fingertip. He presses down, experimenting, and Sherlock writhes and moans underneath him.

“So how would you like this, brother mine?” Mycroft angles his finger to apply direct pressure, wriggles it to tease the tight, dry muscle. “Hard and fast, over in a minute? That’s what you’re used to, right?”

“Mycroft.” His brother’s voice is thin, a low keen muffled by the pillow.

Mycroft tightens his hand around Sherlock’s cock and leans in closer. “Speak up.”

“Use—“ Sherlock twists his head, tries to raise his mouth from the pillow. “Lube. Mycroft. Something.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft straightens back up, scrapes his fingernail against the tightness of Sherlock’s hole. “Why?”

“Because—“

Mycroft won’t let him finish. He locks the joints of his finger and shoves, hard, against the tight resistance. Sherlock bucks underneath him and lets out a yelp. “ _Please_!”

“Are you worth it?” Mycroft’s crotch is pressed right up against Sherlock, and his cock is painfully, shamefully hard. “The time, the preparation. Do you think you’re worth it, Sherlock?”

His brother is trembling, shoulders shaking and fingers twisting into the pillow. His voice is choked as he speaks. “Mycroft, please.”

“Say it.” It takes every last ounce of Mycroft’s self-control to keep his own voice steady, but it’s enough, even if Sherlock sounds broken as he replies.

“I think I’m worth it.”

“Good.” Mycroft’s chest aches, and that’s the last thing he’s going to get out past the tightness in his throat, so he doesn’t say anything more.

They keep the lube in the nightstand. It doesn’t take long to prep Sherlock; he wasn’t lying when he said he’s done this before. Mycroft has to move his hand off Sherlock’s cock to his own to keep himself in an operative state, but his fingers are almost steady as he guides himself inside his little brother. He grips the back of Sherlock’s neck again, keeps him pressed down into the pillows as he starts to move his hips. The tears in his eyes as he approaches orgasm are surely a side-effect of the exertion.

He makes sure to time their climaxes simultaneously. Sherlock shudders underneath him, bucking and gasping. When he’s spent, Mycroft pulls back, cock slipping out and softening rapidly. He yanks the waistband of his trousers back into place and moves up to lie on his side of the bed, facing the wall opposite the window. There are no sounds other than the noise of Lambeth at midnight and Sherlock’s raspy breathing next to him.

His mind is utterly blank, so he lies there silently, shivering as the sweat cools on his skin. After a while, a hand on his shoulder makes him jump.

“Mycroft.”

“What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s voice sounds timid. “Are you okay?”

Mycroft’s throat is parched. “Of course,” he manages. “Why don’t you go and get cleaned up?”

The silence that follows is loud enough that even Lambeth can’t drown it out. They really need to move to a better place.


End file.
